Sunday, 18 November 2012

Guest blog: Marie Laval - 'Angel Heart'

Angel Heart

Blurb

Devonshire, January 1815.

Marie-Ange, the young widow of an English officer,
accepts an inheritance in France
only to find that everything in Beauregard is not as it seems. Why is the
sinister Malleval so obsessed with her family? And could her darling
Christopher still be alive? Marie-Ange finds herself trapped in a dangerous web
of lies, intrigue, and mystical possession, and the only person to whom she can
turn for help is Capitaine Hugo Saintclair. Yet the enigmatic Hugo represents a
danger of a different kind …

Angel Heart is a lavish mix
of romance, adventure, and a hint of the supernatural, largely set in France against the turbulent background of
Napoleon’s return from Elba.

Mini-excerpt

The cutter
was sailing too close to the cliffs, heading straight for the Devil's Tooth.
Marie-Ange's cloak billowed in the blustery wind, the hood blew back and her
hair swirled like a golden veil around her. From the cliff top, she watched the
small French ship dancing wildly on the waves, its tricolour and white ensigns
flapping at the top of the mast. If it
carried on its course the ship would be ripped open by the reef… She unfastened
her cloak, pulled her black shawl from her shoulders, and waved it above her
head in the direction of the Devil's Tooth.

Damn this ship. Damn this weather. And
damn Malleval. Hugo
Saintclair clapped his hands together a few times and blew on them to keep them
warm. Around him, the crew shouted orders and heaved on ropes in order to
switch sails and change course before they hit the rocks. The Angel warned them, the sailors said,
heaven was on their side. Shaking his head with impatience, he listened to
their nonsensical chatter. Angels didn't exist, but the woman who waved at them
from the cliff top had saved them from a certain death.

Excerpt

Who did the
woman think he was to summon him to her room like that? A lackey, probably. His
lips twisted in an angry snarl as he climbed the stairs two by two. Madame
Norton might live in a ramshackle manor house on the bleak, windswept Devonshire moorland, but she was still a Beauregard on
her mother’s side and a member of the English gentry by marriage. He should
have followed Martin’s advice and stayed at the club a while longer.

He
walked down the draughty corridor and drummed impatient fingers on her door.

“Who’s
there?” A timid voice answered from
behind the door.

“Saintclair.
Did you want to talk to me?” His tone was short.

The
door opened just enough for Madame Norton to peer through.

He
exhaled sharply to control his rising temper. “Are you going to let me in or
shall we talk in the corridor?”

She
opened the door wider and he strode in.

“Is
there a problem?” He looked down at her. Barefoot and swamped in an old
dressing gown, the woman hardly reached his shoulder. He wondered what she wore
underneath, if anything. His pulse quickened and a sudden rush of heat coursed
through his veins. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets to hide the direction
his thoughts had taken.

She
stepped back and folded her arms on her chest.

“You said you would be back early. I have been
waiting here all day for you,” she said, her voice cold and haughty.

Her
icy tone did nothing to cool his desires, in fact it had just the opposite
effect. He took a deep breath and walked to the fireplace to put some distance
between them. His lips stretched in a thin smile.

“Sorry.
I got…distracted.” He shrugged. “I did
arrange a carriage and a driver for us. We’re leaving for Lyon
on Saturday.”

She
looked at him again in the way a queen might look at a mangy dog.

“Why
wait until Saturday? Your instructions are to take me straight to Beauregard.
Monsieur Malleval won’t be pleased.”

If she meant to intimidate him, she had
failed. She was starting to amuse him greatly—in more ways than one.

“I
have things to do. Anyway, what’s the rush? I thought you might like to come to
town with me tomorrow and see a play in the evening.”

Her
eyes flashed in anger.

“I
do not go to the theatre, Capitaine. I am in mourning.”

He
arched his eyebrows. “After six years?”

“My
husband was a wonderful man. I will mourn him all my life.” Her eyes filled
with tears, she bit her lip.

He
didn’t answer. There was one thing to be said for her. She was convincing—a
first-class actress. He had almost been taken in by her wistful sighs and
tearful eyes, by her drab mourning dresses and the almost virginal blushing on
her cheeks every time he looked her way. He had almost believed her
grief-stricken widow act…until he saw young Norton leave her room in the middle
of the night with a wide grin on his face. He knew better than to be fooled by
a woman, especially a pretty one.

Still,
the way her voice quivered with emotion, her pale blue eyes shone with tears,
and her lips trembled did have a strange effect on him. His throat went dry and
he swallowed hard, so strong was the urge to crush her mouth under his, rake
his fingers in her soft blond curls, and pull her close. The memory of her
soft, pliable flesh quickened his pulse and made his body throb and grow hard.

As
if she could sense the heat of his desire, a very becoming pink blush covered
her cheeks and throat.

* * * *

Why did he
stare at her in this way? His eyes had gone dark. The red glow from the fire
cast a sinister, almost evil light across his face. He walked toward her,
looking like a wolf about to pounce on his prey. Uneasy, and very conscious of
her state of dishabillé, Marie-Ange stepped backward until her back touched the
dressing table.

“I
bid you good night, Capitaine,” she said, striving to keep her voice calm
despite the thumping of her heart. It was thundering so loudly she was sure he
could hear it.

He
seemed to snap back to reality and took a deep breath. “Of course…I have a few
errands to run tomorrow morning,” he said, walking to the door and opening it.
“Be ready for ten o’clock if you want to come with me.”

Once
alone, she breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment, something in his expression
had made her very uncomfortable. He had come so close the stubble on his
cheeks, the outline of his mouth, and the rugged line of the scar had been
clearly evident. She could have touched the rough fabric of his jacket. A
shiver rippled the skin on her arms and she wrapped herself more tightly in
Christopher’s dressing gown. She would have to be very careful where the
capitaine was concerned. Despite what Uxeloup Malleval had written, she wasn’t
sure she could trust him. But who was there to trust here? She was on her own,
in a foreign land. France
might have been her mother’s country, it wasn’t hers.

About Marie Laval

Originally from Lyon in France,
Marie Laval studied French History and Law at university there. Marie now lives
in Lancashire, in Northern England, where she
tries to balance her busy family life with her passion for writing and her
occupation as a teacher.